The King unfolded the small sheet carefully.  The room was so full of light that he could read it when he sat, without moving.  His eyes followed the lines quickly to the end, and returned to the beginning, and he read the missive again more carefully.  Not the slightest change of expression was visible in his face, as he folded the paper neatly again in the exact shape in which he had received it.  Then he remained silent a few moments.  Perez held his pen ready to write, moving it mechanically now and then as if he were writing in the air, and staring at the fire, absorbed in his own thoughts, though his ear was on the alert.

“You refuse to admit that you found your daughter and Don John together, then?” The King spoke with an interrogation.

“I did not find them together,” answered Mendoza.  “I have said so.”  He was becoming exasperated under the protracted cross-examination.

“You have not said so.  My memory is very good, but if it should fail we have everything written down.  I believe you merely refused to answer when I asked if you knew of their meeting—­which meant that you did know of it.  Is that it, Perez?”

“Exactly so, Sire.”  The Secretary had already found the place among his notes.

“Do you persistently refuse to admit that you had positive evidence of your daughter’s guilt before the murder?”

“I will not admit that, Sire, for it would not be true.”

“Your daughter has given her evidence since,” said the King, holding up the folded note, and fixing his eyes at last on his victim’s face.  If it were possible, Mendoza turned more ashy pale than before, and he started perceptibly at the King’s words.

“I shall never believe that!” he cried in a voice which nevertheless betrayed his terror for his child.

“A few moments before this note was written,” said Philip calmly, “your daughter entered the throne room, and addressed the court, standing upon the steps of the throne—­a very improper proceeding and one which Ruy Gomez should not have allowed.  Your daughter Dolores—­is that the girl’s name?  Yes.  Your daughter Dolores, amidst the most profound silence, confessed that she—­it is so monstrous that I can hardly bring myself to say it—­that she had yielded to the importunities of his late Highness, that she was with him in his room a long time this evening, and that, in fact, she was actually in his bedchamber when he was murdered.”

“It is a lie!” cried Mendoza vehemently.  “It is an abominable lie—­she was not in the room!”

“She has said that she was,” answered Philip.  “You can hardly suppose a girl capable of inventing such damning evidence against herself, even for the sake of saving her own father.  She added that his Highness was not killed by you.  But that is puerile.  She evidently saw you do it, and has boldly confessed that she was in the room—­hidden somewhere, perhaps, since you absolutely refuse to admit that you saw her there.  It is quite clear that you found the two together and that you killed his Highness before your daughter’s eyes.  Why not admit that, Mendoza?  It makes you seem a little less cold-blooded.  The provocation was great—­”